Constant you are, But yet a woman; and for secrecy, No lady closer; for I well believe Thou wilt not utter what thou dost not know.

A man can die but once.

Then is it sin to rush into the secret house of death. Ere death dare come to us?

Sweets grown common lose their dear delight.

I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book!

I'll be damned for never a king's son in Christendom.

Blow, blow, thou winter wind Thou art not so unkind, As man's ingratitude.